


Our Last Resort

by 00javierbardem



Category: 00silva - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-03-31 01:22:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3959104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/00javierbardem/pseuds/00javierbardem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three years after Skyfall has occurred, MI6 is faced with a new threat from a secret organization known as Spectre. Upon Bond's admittance that MI6 is desperate, Mallory reluctantly turns him over to MI6 and England's last resort. Bond never thought he'd have to see this man again, much less beg for his help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Last Resort

**Author's Note:**

> Enjoy!! Very dialogue-heavy.

“Sir, with all due respect, we are out of resources. No one around here knows what Spectre is or who is behind it all. We are played out,” Bond explained dryly with a clenched jaw. He glared at M’s replacement with a sort of superiority on his mind. This man seemed to believe that he could just stroll in and bark orders and have everything be just dandy. He could never replace her. 

Mallory’s eyes wandered up to Bond’s face, where they stayed, grim and serious. He stood from his chair slowly, as if thinking through each movement he made thoroughly.

“Double-oh-seven, come with me,” he sighed, making the request sound much more like a plea. Bond turned and followed Mallory out of the door without reluctance, eager to exit the stuffy new office.

Eve met Bond’s eyes as he passed through the corridor. She smiled from her desk, but there was a distance in her eyes, as though she feared for what Bond was about to experience. He payed her no mind and continued through MI6 on the heels of it’s new tyrant.

They entered an elevator. Mallory pressed a button that lead to one of the underground floors. Bond looked at him with curiosity.

“Sir, what could we possibly find useful down there?” Bond questioned. Recently, he had been letting his curiosity get the better of him and had been asking many more questions than usual. To give Mallory credit, he rarely responded with sarcasm like she would have. Bond both loathed and admired his straight-forwardness, though he often found himself longing for the verbal chastising she would offer.

“I cannot provide the answers you’re looking for, double-oh-seven. I’ll just let them speak for themselves,” Mallory replied. Bond held back a scoff at his obscure response. The elevator dropped, and both of the men were silent.

The elevator doors separated, and Bond was instantly reminded of how much he missed Vauxhall Cross. The bloody building was still under construction, three years later. Bond mentally thanked the dead asshole responsible. 

Q branch was as busy as usual. People darted by carrying massive stacks of papers, eager to put each one where they belonged. Others went from computer to computer while some just stayed and typed with a sort of ferocity in their fingers. They cleared a path upon the sight of Mallory, who strolled across the room. Bond stuck close behind.

They entered one of the narrow corridors that felt more like an alleyway than a spy organization’s hallway. After making several right and left turns, they came to a door that Bond was all too familiar with.

“The interrogation room? Have we captured one of Spectre’s contacts?” Bond questioned, cursing himself afterwards for sounding so much like a child. Mallory turned to face Bond.

“James, I will not follow you into this room for reasons that will reveal themselves. Q is in there. He will answer your questions. I wish you the best of luck,” Mallory said, his face as pale as death itself. With that, he walked away, leaving James alone in the corridor.

James faced the door, making no attempt to open it. For the first time in a decade, the agent could feel the tingling sensation of fear creep up his spine. He silently cursed himself for being so vulnerable, especially when he had no reason to be. Yet. Swallowing his anxiety, he placed his hand on the knob and opened the door.

The room was just as he remembered it when he was debriefed four years ago. Nothing had changed. Even the slight aroma of cleaning chemicals still hung in the air. Q was facing the one-way glass panel with his arms crossed. Bond focused his eyes on him, not ready to see whoever was within the glass. Q turned to stare at Bond, his eyes dim and apologetic. He walked over to Bond.

“I’m sorry, double-oh-seven. He is our last resort,” Q muttered almost inaudibly. Bond nodded, though he still didn’t understand . Slowly, he inched forward towards the glass, keeping his eyes to the ground. When he was close enough to the glass to touch it with his face, Bond looked up.

The first thing he noticed was the hair. It was a warm, mocha brown, still highlighted with chunks of the same platinum blonde, but they were few and far between. It ran down in subtle waves to his shoulders, where it rested in a sort of flipped-outwards curl. Next was his face. He was as pale as Bond remembered him, with the same crooked nose and baby-pink lips. His eyebrows had fully faded back to their dark chocolate brown, standing out like a sore thumb from his pasty skin and light hair. He wore a navy blue jumpsuit with no t-shirt underneath, for it was only zipped halfway up his chest and, even from this distance, Bond could make out the faint pink scars.

Despite the one-way glass window, the man stared straight into Bond’s eyes, almost as if he knew exactly where to stare… and who to stare at. Bond clenched his fists and turned to Q, ignoring his feeling of unease.

“Why isn’t he dead?” Bond asked, surprised at how bitterly the words came out. All of a sudden, Bond was angry. Angry that this man had won again and angry that the man who killed M was not only alive, but right under Bond’s nose, and had apparently been so for almost four years.

“Mallory thought he would be a useful source if we were desperate enough,” Q answered. Bond shook his head.

“That’s not what I mean. What…. How is he alive? I killed him! I saw him hit the floor, dead!!” Bond explained in frustration.

“Apparently not,” Q countered calmly. “He still had a pulse when MI6 recovered his body. Mallory thought it best to put him on an ICU to see if he recovered. He did. So, they reached an agreement that Mr. Silva…” Q paused, giving Bond time to cringe at the sound of the name. “Would not be sent to prison if he agreed to provide all of the information he knew to our Q branch and this organization. They carried quite the conversation from what I heard.” 

“And the PM is okay with this?” Bond questioned. Q raised his eyebrow.

“The PM does not know and will not find out,” Q replied. Bond scoffed loudly.

“And how does Mallory figure? Who says I don’t blackmail him for this?” Bond asked, though he knew the answer as soon as he spoke the words. Q confirmed it.

“If you were, it would lead to the downfall of this organization and therefore, the downfall of Queen and country. Mallory doesn’t think it would suit you to be the cause of all of that,” Q quipped.

“Then he doesn’t know me,” Bond shot back, even though both men knew the statement was a bluff. There was a long pause and an uncomfortable silence. Finally, Q broke it.

“One of the conditions Mallory and Mr. Silva agreed on was that if he we're to be questioned, it would be from you and only you,” Q stated. Bond felt a sickening sensation rise up in his chest, but he quickly forced it back down.

“If I am to go in there, I want privacy,” Bond muttered, indirectly telling Q to leave. Q recognized his cue and slowly exited the room, pausing at the door.

“Double-oh-seven, if you cause him harm in any way, Mallory has made it clear there will be consequences. Do try to control your temper.” And with that, Q exited the room. The last remark would have been a blow to Bond’s ego was he not so focused on the man behind the glass. Bond eyed the door that led into the room, eager to swing it open and strut into the room just as much as he dreaded to. He approached the door and placed his hands on the knob, noticing the coolness that shot through his fingertips. It’s been a while since anyone has been in here, and for a moment, Bond wondered how many people in the building knew of this man’s existence. He shook the thought away and opened the door, stepping into the room.

Bond watched Silva’s eyes like a hawk watches its prey, but they remained glued to the table as Bond approached. It wasn’t until Bond threw the chair backwards and sat in it that the man looked at him. Bond noted that the man’s eyes were actually a soft brown, but they still pierced Bond’s stare like his previous ocean blue ones did.

The opposite man’s face was unreadable, yet Bond had the eerie feeling that the man was studying him, analyzing every move he made. Finally, he smirked, and carelessly threw his hands onto the surface of the table with an obnoxious thud, revealing they were cuffed together. Let the games begin.

“You look as surprised as she was,” Silva said emotionlessly. His usual flamboyant, light-hearted voice was gone, leaving a deep, rugged, throaty one behind. Bond wondered if this was from years of imprisonment or if it was his actual voice.

“So, not at all,” Bond replied casually. Silva cracked a smile, revealing those flawless white teeth that Bond hadn’t yet forgotten were false.

“You can’t hide your thoughts from me. You’re an open book, Mr. Bond.” Bond cringed at the name. This was the only man that could make Bond’s name sound unfamiliar. He swallowed his uneasiness, never letting his eyes retreat from Silva’s face.

“Really? I always thought otherwise,” he said, unimpressed. Silva leaned back in his chair, absorbing Bond’s words, waiting for the opportunity to throw them back in his face. He raised his eyebrows in mock concern.

“I think it would do us both some good if you just let all of that anger out,” Silva taunted. Bond smirked at his jab, but on the inside, Silva’s invitation sounded oh so tempting.

“Get out of my head,” Bond shot back, far too bitterly than he intended. He was a rusty sword fighting with one who had spent years being brandished. He was going to have to choose his words carefully. Not once had he forgotten how sly Silva was, not just with his tongue, but with his thoughts.

“I can’t leave your mind, James.”

“You did before.”

“No, James. I never left,” Silva countered with narrowed eyes and a fake smile Bond wish he would stop displaying. “In these three years that have passed, you know I’ve never left.” Bond clenched his teeth. They both knew Silva was right, but Bond would be horrifically tortured before he admitted it.

“What makes you think I’d ever think of you?” Bond played, opening the door for Silva to elaborate, though he was aware it could backfire and slam in his face. Silva laughed a hearty cackle, and Bond was struck with memories of being back on Silva’s island and witnessing the performance he put on, utilizing as many laughs as he possibly could have. All of which similar to this one, which still rang throughout Bond’s ears long after it had ceased.

“You don’t have to. Just think of her.” Bond’s blood boiled at this remark, and he seriously considered strangling the man right then and there. Surely Mallory would forgive him. He had to. But, upon further fantasizing Silva’s pale, lifeless face after death, something deep within Bond’s mind forbade it. Great. Now he couldn’t kill the man because of his damn conscience. Since when has a double-oh-agent had a conscience? 

In an effort to make up for this prolonged silence, Bond clumsily threw out the first insult he thought of.

“You’re nothing,” he said harshly. The offense was weak, but Bond was proud of its deliverance. Silva didn’t hesitate.

“Am I?” He asked with raised eyebrows, mocking a surprised expression. Bond suddenly regretted his poor choice of words as he waited for Silva to eat them up and spit them right back out. Sure enough, he didn’t disappoint. “Am I not the cause of all that anger? All that rage that festers within you?” Silva pinpointed… and, to Bond’s dismay, he did so accurately. Silva faded his tone and expression into one of mock sympathy. “Oh… those suicidal thoughts.”

“Shut up,” Bond spat. Silva had hit a sensitive spot, and now Bond was desperate. His opponent was treading in dangerous waters courageously.

“I can’t,” Silva chuckled. “You need me.”

“I would never need you,” Bond fired back recklessly.

“Mm… this country does. So does your Queen. Are those not the sole entities you’re obliged to defend?” Silva questioned with squinted eyes and parted lips. Bond was silent, letting the tension in the room speak for him. Silva was unfazed by this attempt, and instigated further. “You also had a duty to protect her, but you failed quite miserably.” Bond clenched his fists under the table, seeing red. He tried to calm himself, knowing that an outburst was exactly what Silva wanted. He recalled Severine’s words from years ago. How Silva got what he wanted, “more than you know,” were her exact words. Bond eased his rage, refusing to let that statement continue to apply after all these years.

“Because of you,” Bond replied as casually as an assassin trying to control their temper possibly could have. This time, Silva fired back icily.

“Because of one of my men!” Silva spat back, his handcuffed fists clenching on the table. Bond made no attempt to hide his smirk, for he had found a weakness in the strongest man he knew.

“Now who’s angry?” Bond continued. Silva’s eyes were like daggers into Bond’s, but he didn’t let the man’s glare wipe the smirk from his lips. Suddenly, Silva cracked a smile, trying to erase his small outburst with ease.

“Do I look like I have room for anger, Mr. Bond?” He played, leaning back in his chair to display his nonchalance about the topic. Bond narrowed his eyes.

“You’re an open book, Mr. Silva,” Bond recycled. Silva showed no reluctance in his response.

“No, I’m a ruined one. There’s a difference,” he admitted.

“And what might that be?” Bond urged. Silva sighed, as if he had explained this one hundred times before.

“My pages are torn, my words censored. My title’s scratched out and my author anonymous.” Bond allowed his curiosity to leak.

“And what’s my title?” Bond asked. Silva showed no emotion.

“Double-oh-seven,” he answered.

“Am I not more than just a number?” Bond asked with genuine curiosity, but his deliverance sounded much more like a tease.

“You’re no more than the people you serve,” Silva replied coldly.  
“I beg to differ. Does that imply people are no better than their shitty bosses?” Bond asked. Silva’s expression became amused.

“I said nothing about other people. I said you.”

“So, Mallory?”

“You don’t serve Mallory, James. Let’s be honest, you consider Mallory a temporary replacement.”

“So, M?”

“Mm,” Silva hummed, his lips twisted upwards at their corners. A ghost of a smile.

“But she’s dead,” Bond reminded.

“Yes,” Silva shamelessly agreed. Bond decided to throw another punch at the man.

“Because of you.”

“NO!” Silva shouted, slamming his fists on the table. Bond had difficulty containing his content at knowing just what buttons to push on Silva after hopelessly believing he truly had none. The man was just as broken at her death as Bond was, and his biggest fear was to be directly blamed for it, though, Bond knew it wasn’t the man’s fault just as much as it was.

After a moment, Silva recollected himself and elaborated.

“Because of one of my men,” he replied softly. Bond wasn’t quite finished with his prodding.

“Which you commanded,” Bond jabbed. Silva gazed at him with dark, glaring eyes, but his voice was casual.

“I told them specifically not to touch her,” Silva replied distantly.

“They came at us with machine guns,” Bond argued.

“A precaution,” Silva snapped. “I didn’t exactly expect you to come willingly.”

“Well, you’re right there,” Bond said softly, turning his head to stare at the wall. His eyes, his mind, everything needed a break from fighting with this man. It was… exhausting. Silva wouldn’t allow the pause.

“Am I not always right?” He asked after a deep exhale. Bond faced him, but didn’t answer the question because of the answer. Eager to change the subject, he asked the next question on his mind.

“Where are they keeping you?”

“In a prison cell,” Silva replied with little enthusiasm. Bond’s amusement went straight to his eyes, which wrinkled at the corners.

“Lock and key?” Bond questioned. Silva mirrored this amusement.

“Mm. I don’t know whether to be flattered or offended.”

“You left them little choice,” Bond stated, tossing the memory of Silva’s hacking and escape from his previous cell. Silva took mild offense to Bond’s remark.

“As if I couldn’t escape here,” he scoffed.

“You’d have to get through me,” Bond reminded him. Silva stirred with interest at this answer.

“Is that a threat or an invitation?” He asked playfully, lowering his brow. Bond resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Bond conceded.

“Mm…” Silva hummed. After a brief moment of silence, Silva cracked his knuckles. “So what’s next? You need me, I don’t need you…” 

“Sure you do, unless you want to spend life in federal prison. I can guarantee they won’t be as nice as I am,” Bond stated, letting the threat roll off his tongue with ease. Silva scoffed.

“I’ve suffered worse.” Bond lowered his eyes to the triangle of exposed chest beneath Silva’s shirt. He nodded at the raised, faded-pink scars.

“Clearly,” he said.

“A ruined book,” Silva confirmed with a single nod. Bond refused to grant him this gratitude.

“That lays wide open. You’re subtle, Mr. Silva. That doesn’t mean you’re obscure.”

“And you’re the expert?” Silva asked, almost accusingly.

“I’m not blind,” Bond pointed out bluntly. 

“But you are… an alcoholic, no?” Silva threw out. Bond crossed his arms over his chest.

“Hmph,” he managed, making a point of staring Silva up and down. Silva widened his eyes and leaned back in his chair, raising his chained wrists in mock-surrender.

“Oh, do try to piece me together, James. I would be honored,” Silva performed, letting the slightest hint of that flamboyance seep back into his tone. Bond obliged, eager to shove the truth into Silva’s rugged face.

“Fine. You’re miserable,” Bond stated bluntly. He stood from his chair and paced the room with his hands in his pockets. Silva rolled his eyes.

“As if that wasn’t obvious,” he teased. Bond pressed on, ignoring the comment.

“From within. You’re angry that she’s gone, but you’re even more haunted by the fact that it wasn’t by your hand. All of those elaborate plans and you failed. Yet, at the same time, you regret sealing her fate. You know it wasn’t you who did it, but you were behind it. That haunts you. You wish she was still here for you to look into her cold blue eyes and tell her of the terrors she caused.” Silva was expressionless, but his eyes were calm and focused. Finally, he clasped his hands together and made a remark that didn’t surprise Bond one bit.

“I’m not impressed.” Bond grunted at this.

“Not that you’ll admit.” Just to make spite of this comment, Silva clapped his hands.

“Congratulations. You just solved me. Unfortunately, you have no prize this time around,” Silva said. 

“I can’t say I’m disappointed, given that the last one nearly crushed me,” Bond recalled with sarcasm.

“Yes. To my dismay, it failed,” Silva insulted. Bond sought deeper into this remark.

“You don’t want me dead.” Silva raised his eyebrows at the challenge just offered to him. Bond walked over to the man and bent down low enough so that their faces were inches apart, the closest they had ever been except for that day on the island. Silva smelled of soap and shaving cream. 

“You couldn’t kill me if I was the last man on earth,” Bond pressed, his voice low and predatory. Silva remained unflinching.

“The last rat always dies, James,” Silva replied just as animal-like. The remark was harmless, but Bond couldn’t resist the feeling that it was a threat. To verify it wasn’t, Bond leaned in even closer to Silva.

“Not by your hand,” he taunted. Bond saw the slightest bit of a grin play on Silva’s lips before there was a flash of movement and suddenly, the chain to Silva’s handcuffs were wrapped around Bond’s neck.

“Oh, really, James?” Silva hissed into the man’s ear. Bond places his hands on Silva’s arms, but still remaining calm. The pull of the chain on his neck was firm but not suffocating, and Bond found that he’s rather be choked out than let Silva know he made him panic. “What if I ended your life right now?” Silva pondered into Bond’s right ear, so close that he could feel the man’s breath.

“You can’t,” Bond replied, still maintaining composure. He was a small rat in a cobra’s mouth. All he could do now was keep calm and hope Silva wouldn’t kill him.

“What if I sent Mommy’s precious little rat to go find her?” Silva snarled, unhappy at Bond’s lack of alarm. The chain around Bond’s neck tightened slightly. Still, Bond called Silva’s bluff.

“You won’t.”

“Don’t be so sure, Mr. Bond,” Silva cackled, adding to Bond’s uneasiness. He was a victim in the hands of a madman now. 

“I am,” Bond replied, unflinching.

“I could kill you and escape all over again,” Silva threatened.

“You could,” Bond said.

“I could flee and go reside on some remote island not big enough to be seen on the most detailed of maps,” Silva growled.

“You could,” Bond stated.

“I could be free,” Silva said, desperation seeping heavily into his voice like oil into water.

“You could.” After an angry tug of the chain, Silva releases Bond and falls back into his chair in defeat, hanging his head.

“But you won’t, will you, Mr. Silva?” Bond asked calmly and contently. Silva didn’t answer, nor did he even look at Bond. “We may be the last two rats, but we will never leave the cages they’ve placed us in,” Bond said solemnly. The comment was a depressing one, but Bond was open to admit it was the truth. Silva gazed up at him with loss clear in his eyes.

“Maybe I’m different,” he muttered. 

“No,” Bond said, discouraging the thought. “You were right all those years ago. You’re no different than me.”

“You believe that?” Silva asked with uncertainty.

“Our only difference was murdered three years ago,” Bond said sharply. Silva pursed his lips. Bond sat back down in the chair across from the man. They had both shown their weaknesses, they had both bared their teeth, now it was time to put it all aside. “Mr. Silva, I need your help,” Bond stated. Silva looked up at him with hope in his golden brown eyes. Slowly, he smiled.

“I thought so,” he said.


End file.
